Sick Day
by Questar Siderial
Summary: Neil Watts is late for work. Very late. Eva is determined to find out what's wrong. Fluff.


Forty-five minutes. It was forty-five minutes past nine, and Neil still wasn't at his desk. Eva didn't even need to check—he always pounded down the hallway like a startled bull elephant, slamming the door on his way in.

She'd checked anyway.

Poking her head out into the hall, she glanced up and down. Her eyebrows drew together. She strode over to the office next to his, and gave a quick rap on the door. "Roxie, are you in there?"

"What is it, Eva? Did your key break in the door again?"

"No, have you seen—"

The door opened, and the blond doctor peered out at Eva with questioning blue eyes, a spoonful of ice cream hovering an inch from her mouth. Eva glanced away, her worry mingling with embarrassment. "Have you seen Neil this morning?"

"I don't think so. Has he not showed up yet?"

"If he had, would I be asking?"

Roxie shrugged, and shoved the spoon of ice cream into her mouth. She spoke around the mouthful of melting chocolate. "Ifn't he usuay wate, doe?"

"Yes, he is." Eva frowned, and turned away. "Thanks, Roxie. I'm sure he just overslept."

"No probbem!" The door closed again.

Eva ran her fingers through her long bangs. Neil _was_ usually late. But forty-five minutes late?

She sat down at her desk again, her gaze moving unseeingly over the papers spread across it. She tucked her diary back in the drawer where it belonged, and pulled a form closer to her.

 _Employee Name:_ _Dr. Eva Rosalene_

 _Patient Name: __

"I'm going to call him." She sank her hand into the deep pocket of her lab coat, feeling around for her cellphone. Her fingers seized on it, and she pulled it out, hovering over the hotkey for Neil.

After a moment, she set it back down on her desk. "No, Eva, you're overreacting. Roxie's right. He'll come stampeding in here before you know it, curses and coattails flying. What are you worried about?"

She knew the moment she'd said those words that it was a mistake. She knew exactly what she was worried about.

 _These pills are awfully strong, Neil._

"Maybe he wrecked on the highway. I should give him a call." She held 2 until her phone screen displayed the words. _Dialing… One Handsome Fellow._ Cucumbers, Neil had gotten into her phone again. It rang against her ear, and she bit her lip. Pick up, you idiot. One ring. Two. Three. Fou—

"Eva?"

Her free hand unclenched the desk, and she brushed her bangs out of her face. "Neil, why aren't you at work? Is Netflix paying you to sit on your couch and watch movies?"

"I'm sorry, Eva, I didn't want to tell you." His voice sounded hoarse and muffled, as if he were speaking through a blanket made of sandpaper. "I'm sick."

A snowball began to form in the pit of her stomach. "Sick?"

"I didn't want to worry you. I... I have the flu."

"Oh." The snowball melted. "Well, why didn't you say anything?"

"I just told you I didn't want to worry you. I know we have a lot of paperwork to finish, and you're stressed as it is—look, the point is, I can't come into work today. I'd spend more time over my wastebasket than my keyboard."

"That's lovely." Eva glanced down at the pile of papers on her desk.

"Like I said, sorry. I'll do extra work to help catch up as soon as I'm feeling better."

"Sure, you do that." Eva hit the 'End Call' button, and set her phone on the desk. She picked up her pen, and tried to focus on the form. After misspelling her patient's name three times, she gave up, grabbed her jacket off the coat hook, and strode out into the hall.

A sharp rap on the door shook Neil out of his torpor. He glanced at the clock (11:34), and at the television ( _Doctor Who)._ Another rap propelled him off the hide-a-bed that served as his sofa. He fumbled a bathrobe over his musty pajamas, and staggered to the door. It took two tries to get the rusty doorknob to turn, but then the door swung open.

Eva stood on his doorstep, a steaming pot (of something, he couldn't smell much of anything right now) clutched in her arms. Her warm brown eyes narrowed in concern as she took in his disheveled appearance. "You look like a cat someone left in the rain.."

"Don't knock it until you try it," he managed, before she was inside.

Before his groggy brain could register anything else, her coat was on a hangar, the pot was on the counter, and her hand was locked firmly on his arm. "You should be in bed, moron. Look at you! I've had patients who were healthier."

His flu-dimmed mind worked feverishly, trying to figure out what on earth was even going on. "What are you doing here?"

Her other hand was around his waist now, and somehow his arm had gotten slung over her shoulder. He protested that he was perfectly capable of walking, but she ignored him, and got his shuffling butt back into bed where it was supposed to be (her words, not his). She stood over him, arms akimbo. "You look really, really terrible."

"I think you mentioned that already." He sniffed, running a hand through the tangle that currently served as his hair. With his free hand, he reached for a tissue box. As Eva handed it to him, her gaze took in the bedsheet, which was pockmarked with tissues of a less savory nature. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a garbage bag. Nose wrinkled, she gathered up the unappealing items and stowed the bag next to the bed. She also gathered up the candy bar wrappers and chip bags that littered the area. Then she planted a bowl of the steaming something (soup, apparently, maybe chicken?) in his hands, set a bottle of revoltingly pink stomach medicine (not his) on the side table, and pulled up a chair (definitely his, judging by the worn cushions) next to him.

He frowned. "Define 'terrible.'"

"You're pale, the bags under your eyes are big enough for a trip to Hawaii, and the bowl next to the bed tells me that neither your nose nor stomach are functioning properly. Eat your soup."

He glanced down at the chipped bowl, his nose wrinkling in an attempt to earn its paycheck. "What is it? I might be allergic."

"Eat."

He ate. By the time he'd finished, the pillows and blankets beginning to attain sentience on the floor had been bundled into a garbage bag (hopefully to go to the laundromat), which Eva had set by the door. The few she deemed still presentable she'd folded and set in a neat pile next to the bed. He even heard the sound of the sink running in the kitchen, and grimaced at the thought of Eva tackling his pile of grimy dishes. Nonetheless, as he slurped down the last spoonful of warm (he could tell that much, even if he couldn't taste it) soup, she sat down in her chair next to him, studying him with alarming closeness. "Did you get a flu shot?"

"Ironically, yes."

"Good."

He set the now-empty bowl aside. "Eva, seriously, what are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?"

"Remember when my car broke down, and you had to take me home? You stopped off here to grab the DVD you'd borrowed from me."

"Oh." He forced his eyebrows up and down, trying to ignore the oncoming sinus headache. "You remembered where it was?"

"Obviously." Eva dug into the grubby carpet with the toe of her boot. "Do you ever clean this place?"

"Obviously not." Neil frowned. "Wait... you have work to do today."

She was still looking around the flat. "You got that right."

"No, I mean, at Sigmund Corp."

"Oh, that." The corner of her mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile. "I took a sick day. In a manner of speaking."

His cheeks flushed (from the fever). "Oh. Well..."

"Don't flatter yourself, cabbagehead. I can't finish all the paperwork without your input." She glanced up at the paused Netflix screen. " _Human Nature?_ "

"Nah, I hate that one. I just started Season 4."

"Ah. _Partners in Crime,_ then?"

"Absolutely."


End file.
